Jean Plaidy - For a Queen's Love - The Stories of the Royal Wives of Philip II

The baby was born in July.

Bells were set ringing throughout Spain and a messenger was sent to the Emperor with the news. Maria Manoela had given birth to a boy.

Leonor held the baby in her arms. She showed Philip a red, wrinkled face, a small head covered with black down. “A boy!” she cried. “A son for Spain!”

“But … the Princess?” said Philip.

“Tired, Highness. Exhausted. She is in need of rest.”

“Leonor … all is well?”

Leonor smiled tenderly. She loved him the more because he forgot that as the Prince of Spain his first thoughts should be of the boy, and gave them to his wife.

“Let her rest a while, dear Highness. That is best for her.”

“Leonor!” He caught her hand and gripped it so tightly that she winced with the pain. “I ask you … all is well?”

“All is well indeed. How do you think a woman feels when she has had a baby? She wants to rest … rest …”

He dropped her hand.

“I will look at her now,” he said. “Do not fear that I shall disturb her. But I must see for myself that all is well.”

So he went to her bedside. There she lay, her dark hair spread about the pillows, her dark lashes seeming darker because of the unusual pallor of her skin; she did not look like little Maria Manoela. She had grown up since he had last seen her. She had become a mother. Gently he touched her damp cheek with his lips and, muttering a prayer, hurried from the room.

Leonor came to him as he paced the apartment.

“Has she not awakened yet?” he asked.

“It was an exhausting labor, Highness.”

“But … so long. Others are not like this.”

“A first child is always more difficult.”

“Leonor, what is it? Tell me.”

“Nothing … nothing. Your Highness distresses himself without cause.”

“Oh, Leonor, I wish I could think so.”

“Philip … little Highness … this is not like you.”

“You too, Leonor? You too do not know what I am like.”

“Philip, dear one, I understand.”

“Then … tell me.”

“What can I tell? It is a first child … It is always difficult.”

“You have said that before, Leonor. All is well, you say. Yet your eyes say something different.”

“Nay, little one. It is the anxiety which makes you think so.”

“Is it, then? She is so young, Leonor … and we have been together such a short time. I had plans … for I thought we should have our whole lives together.”

“And so you shall, my precious one.”

“You treat me now as though I am a child. Thus it was when I was small and you knew a child’s tragedy was pending.”

“You must not think the worst, dear one.”

“Leonor … do not try to hide the truth from me. I am no longer a child, you know.”

“Do you love her so much?” He was silent and she went on: “You did not show it.”

Then he began to laugh mirthlessly as Leonor had never heard him laugh before, and it seemed to her that his laughter was more heartrending than sad words.

The tears ran down her cheeks and, because she could not control them, she ran, with a complete absence of ceremony, from the room.

“Send the doctors!” cried Philip. “I must see the doctors.”

They came and stood before him, their heads bowed, their hands clasped together.

“Something is not … as it should be,” he said.

“Your Highness, the Princess is resting. She needs rest after a difficult labor. The little Prince, Don Carlos, thrives, your Highness …”

“It is of the Princess that I wish to speak. Tell me the truth.” Philip was astonished by the calmness of his voice; he had thought it must betray the agony within him.

They kept their respectful attitudes.

“The Princess suffers from natural exhaustion, your Highness.”

Philip sighed. He was obsessed by agonizing thoughts. They are telling me what they know I wish to hear. My father said all men would do that. They seek to please me, not to give me the truth. The truth! What is the truth?

He was afraid that he would break down before these men, and he was enough himself to remember that he must not do that.

He dismissed them.

He sat by her bed. No one else was in the room, for he had sent them all away. Two days had passed, yet she lay there still and strange—remote, like another person.

He knelt by the bed and took her hand.

“Maria Manoela,” he begged. “Look at me. Do you not know me?”

Her eyes were turned toward him—those dark eyes of wonderful beauty—but he knew that she did not see him.

“Dearest,” he whispered, “you must get well. I cannot lose you now. That must not happen. Maria … Maria Manoela, I love you. Did you not know it? It was so difficult to speak of. In the apartments of our grandmother you turned to me … you turned to me when you were so much afraid. That made me happy. In the night … when the nightmares came … you turned to me. You put your dear arms about me and clung to me … to me … to Philip—not the Prince to whom they pay so much homage … but to Philip, your husband who loves you. I have planned so much for us … so much happiness. You and I together in a secret world of our own. Outside I seem cold and strict. I guard my feelings. It is necessary, my love, for that is the man they have made of me. I have to be a great ruler, as my father is, but I want to be happy too. I want to be happy with you. I will make you love me, Maria … Maria Manoela. I shall be tender to you … true to you. You must live, my dearest. You must live for me.”

He stopped speaking and looked at her tired, blank face. He saw the irony of this. Now he had said all that was in his heart … now … when she could not hear him. She lay limp, with the fever consuming her; and she did not know who this young man was who spoke to her so earnestly, whose eyes pleaded so desperately.

But at last she spoke, and he bent over her to catch her words.

“I … am … so thirsty. Please … please … bring me lemons.”

He called to the attendants.

“Lemons! At once! The Princess is asking for them.”

Leonor came running in to him. She threw herself into his arms.

“The saints be praised. She has asked for lemons. Our prayers are being answered. This is a sign.” Then she tore herself away from him; she began giving instructions. She held the cup of juice to the lips of Maria Manoela, and she was praying all the time while the tears ran down her cheeks.

Philip waited. He had told her of his feelings for her. Soon he would speak those words again, and this time she would hear.

The court was mourning her. Poor little Maria Manoela—so young to die. She was just seventeen. She was just beginning life. It was tragic, and the Prince had lost his calmness and control.

He would see no one. He shut himself into his apartment. He lay on his bed and stared up at the canopy saying nothing, just alone with his misery.

There was anxiety for his health.

Leonor said: “He will recover. He knows too well what is expected of him. Leave him alone awhile … just for a little while with his grief. Let him at least have a short while to mourn as other men may mourn.”

“He will recover,” said the courtiers, the councillors, the grandees, and the statesmen. “He will remember that we have a child … a boy child … a future King of Spain. He will understand soon that the tragedy is not so great as he now thinks it. Don Carlos flourishes. It is not easy to get sons, but it is a simple matter to find brides for great princes.”

None knew this better than the Prince himself; but what consolation was it to a broken-hearted husband?